


fifteen texts i almost sent you.

by kindahannah



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M, Sad, TW: Eating Disorder, TW: Self Harm, completely sad, criminal lack of everybody else, im always sad late at night and so things like this happen, this is just sad, tw: depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:54:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindahannah/pseuds/kindahannah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry had no clue when everything started to fall apart, but, God, did he wish he knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fifteen texts i almost sent you.

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this](http://backshelfpoet.tumblr.com/post/68248424702/1-i-left-my-favorite-pair-of-underwear-at-your) post. she wrote all the texts, and i take no credit for them myself. i just wrote the scenes and storyline that go along with them.

Harry had no clue when everything started to fall apart, but, God, did he wish he knew. He wished he could go back to the start of their relationship, fix and change and tweak it until it was perfect. Until they were perfect. But they just _weren't_. 

Around a week after their breakup, Harry found himself sitting with his back pressed up against his door, his knees curled to his chest, his head dropping low. He was waiting for Niall's voice to ring through the hallways, waiting for his phone to light up with a call from him. He was waiting for an opportunity to tell Niall how sorry he was, but it never came.

The day that he realized they were truly over, he cried so hard that his mother had to give him a sedative, and he slept the entire next day. When he woke up, he was groggy and disoriented, and he _swore_ that he could smell Niall's familiar cologne wrapping around him. And then all the mattered was that he left his things at Niall's house. A t-shirt, a sweatshirt, a pair of socks, a beanie, and his favorite pair of underwear. He emptied every drawer and shelf in his room until he was able to tally up all these things he'd left.

And then he realized it was more than just his clothing. A piece of him still stayed with Niall, probably swept beneath his bed, or wrapped up and tossed in the rubbish bin. He wasn't sure he'd ever get it back.

**I left my favorite pair of underwear at your house. I know your mother hates me, can I come pick them up?**  
 **[delete]**

**

He wasn't really himself after them. Niall had made him so happy, feel so special. Niall was the person who could get his face to light up in a smile, to laugh at himself when he did something dumb. Niall was what made him happy, and now he was gone, and Harry definitely wasn't happy.

His wasn't smiling anymore, and he wasn't laughing when he'd done something dumb. He hated himself, and he hated how empty he was. He hated how it felt like part of him was missing, and he hated that he had to realize that part was Niall.

He might have been imagining it, but he was sure that everyone who he used to talk to had traded their greetings for pitiful frowns. Or maybe they didn't even recognize him anymore. Harry hardly recognized himself anymore.

Dark circles were always constant under his eyes, his skin was paler than usual, and he looked worn down and tired all the time. But he didn't sleep anymore, so it made sense. It was one of the few things that really made sense to him.

**It’s been almost a month and I still miss you like a fucking limb.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Rain makes Harry sad, it always has. He used to think that he should try and get somewhere else, somewhere that he could sit out and feel the sun warm him from the outside in, but then he realized that he belonged here. It was always raining, and Harry was always sad, and they fit together in a sick kind of way. 

Niall used to make the rain nice. He used to sit around with Harry in the warm, dry, comfort of one of their living rooms. He used to make them tea, and sit close, and cover his face with kisses, and tell him lame jokes until he was smiling again, despite the steady beat of rain on the windows. 

But now he doesn't have that, and Harry doesn't like to go anywhere when it rains. He even locks himself in his room when it's raining too hard for him to go to school, and after a while, his mom stopped trying to get him out. 

He has a sinking fear that even his mother has given up on him now. 

Everyone gives up on him, and he's lonely. So lonely that everything hurts. 

**I didn’t know my bones could ache until I met you.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Harry has always liked the raw beauty and pain of poetry, and he's always wished that he could write it. He's tried before, but it never turned out to be as beautiful as anything else, and nothing's ever made it farther than his bedroom. 

He later thinks that he cannot gather pretty words because he's made up of ugly things. 

There's only one time that he can think of that Niall picked up one of the many books of poetry he has scattered around his room. It was a book called Bough Down, and Harry loved it. He'd flipped to a line that Harry was now repeating to himself every day since he'd left, and he'd read it out loud. _"Ultimately, the loss becomes immortal and hole is more familiar than tooth."_

He'd studied the page for a moment more, and Harry watched him with interested eyes and waited for Niall to speak. Maybe he'd tell him that he liked it, and Harry would be able to nod and reply that yes, the book was a manifestation of his own voiceless rage and grief, but that wasn't what Niall had said. 

He's tossed the book down towards the bed, and Harry had scrambled to pick it up before any of the pages creased. Niall had asked why he didn't read something more interesting, and Harry gave him a blank look before shrugging. 

On their first date, Niall had said he liked the fact that Harry read poetry. He said he'd like it very much if Harry showed him some of his favorites. 

**You know, a week before we broke up, do you remember? I had bought a book of poetry. You asked why I didn’t read something more interesting and I could feel my insides splinter.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Harry has been the personification of pure and utter sadness for as long as he could remember. Niall was a warm blanket that chased the sadness away for a while, but now it was back. And Harry didn't bother trying to fight it anymore. 

He used to go and see a therapist, who helped him think of a list of things he could look forward to. When he met Niall, the boy became a walking list. He could look forward to Niall, and he did everyday. 

He didn't go to the therapist anymore. He didn't have a list of happy things anymore. He figured maybe he'd left that with Niall, too. 

**You said poetry was all lies dressed up to sound pretty. When I look at you these days, I want to ask if sadness sounds pretty to you too.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Harry's mother worked late on Friday nights, which meant he was alone at home. Unless Gemma had decided to come home, which she didn't usually. (Why would she want to come spend time with her sad, sad brother when she had friends and a life and everything Harry used to have?) 

He's bundled up in a fuzzy blanket, staring at the TV when he gets the call. It's two-thirty in the morning, and usually Harry's mother is usually home by now. He's worried something happened to her, until he answers the phone to her voice, telling him that she'll be home later than expected, and it's okay for him to go to bed now. Harry always waits up for her, and she knows that. 

When the line goes dead, Harry sighs and stands up, leaving the telly flickering. It had been muted for almost an hour now, when the sound of happy people and laugh tracks became too much for him to listen to. 

He instead goes to the kitchen and decides to try and find something that he'd heard could dull pain. There's a bottle that's bright blue, and Harry decides to pick that one out of the assortment. When he opens it and waves it under his nose, it smells a bit like rubbing alcohol. Pouring it out into a glass, he takes a sip and that alone burns his throat, and he closes his eyes tightly. 

When he looks back down at the label, he reads the words 'dry gin', and he licks his lips before going back in for another sip. 

Sixteen sips later, it doesn't burn so much, but it's not making the dull ache in him lessen any. The drink has stopped smelling like rubbing alcohol, and smells more like Niall. It tastes like him, too. 

He stumbles around the kitchen, making sure everything is back in order, or at least enough that his mother won't find out. Harry isn't sure if he wants to do this anymore. (And by this, he means live). 

**It’s 3 a.m. and this alcohol tastes like you.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Harry is falling behind terribly in school, and mostly because he skips too many days, and sleeps during class because he can't at night, and he's too sad when he gets home to do homework. They call his mom, and he knows it, because they tell him they will. But his mom never says anything to him about it. (Maybe she knows he doesn't care about anything anymore). 

Sometimes he hears Niall's thick accent carrying through the halls, and he'll whip his head around until he can locate him. But Niall's never looking back. Harry wishes he could be one of the people surrounding Niall with a smile. He wishes he could be happy like them. 

One day in Lit. -- the only class he has with Niall -- he's about to fall asleep, like usual. The sleeves of his jumper are pushed over his hands, and he's sinking back in his seat like he can hide from everyone. He slowly looks in the direction of Niall, as he does each day, but for a change, his eyes meet Niall's blue ones, and he forgets how to breathe. 

After what felt like an eternity, but was only fourteen seconds, Harry feels the corners of his lips go up into a little smile. Niall doesn't smile back. He just turns to face the front of the room. Harry feels like he could burst into tears, and the smile fades. 

This was, he realizes, the first smile he'd shown in months. And it was wasted. 

**I saw you staring at me today during Lit class. I smiled at you and you didn’t smile back. I almost cried.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Harry thinks he's losing his senses. Everything is cold now. He's cold during every hour of the night, even when he's wrapped up in every blanket. He wears sweaters and two pairs of socks to school everyday, and he still shivers. The other day he held onto a hot cup of tea until his hands were bright red, but they were still cold. 

But it's more than that. 

Lately, everything has sounded like he's underwater, and people are yelling at him from above the surface. Nobody really talks to him, even teachers stop calling on him, but that's because he doesn't answer anymore. He can't hear them. 

Everywhere he is, and everyone he's around, smells like Niall. A mixture of his cologne, and mint toothpaste, and laundry detergent. That smell both cloaks him in comfort, and makes him want to be sick. 

But at least he can still see fine. 

**The girl who sits next to me smells like you.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Harry is used to the loneliness that surrounds him everyday. He's stopped registering it. He doesn't care. 

Nothing can change it. Nobody cares enough to notice. 

He walks slow, so slow that people push past him in an attempt to get where they need to go. (Sometimes Harry wonders if they even see him). 

He also wants to ask why they're in such a rush. Everyone dies in the end. 

No, he doesn't register the loss he feels anymore. Not usually. 

But one night, it hits him harder than before. It comes over him in body shaking waves until he's curled up on the floor, tears falling down his cheeks and hitting the carpet underneath him. He can't breathe, and he misses Niall, and he misses feeling whole, and he misses _feeling_. 

He is alone. 

**I miss you.  
 **[delete]****

** 

His fingers tremble as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, a towel under his legs and a razor blade in his hand. Every time he does this, all he can think about was the night that Niall took his wrist in his hand and kissed along his pale, thin skin and made him promise not to hurt himself ever again. He'd promised. 

But Niall had promised him that he wouldn't leave like everyone else, so Harry figures he's allowed to break a promise of his own. 

And break it he does. 

He ends up like this every night, sobs racking his too-thin frame as he drags the razor blade over his skin repeatedly, watching it break. 

He cries for everything he's lost, and everything he never got. He cries because he's not good enough, and because he never will be. He cries because he's not happy, and because he'll always be like this. 

But he doesn't stop, because he can finally _feel_ something. It's vain and selfish, but it's all he's got. The pain is the only thing he has holding him down. 

When he's done, he falls to the floor and sets a towel over his leg, taking in as much of the pain as he could until he leaned over his toilet and was sick, and then collapsed back down, weak and trembling. 

**I have never had so many bad nights.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Harry likes to pretend he's a poet. He likes to pretend he can force words out of his mind, and jam them together until they form something close to all the sadness he's feeling. Sometimes he puts them places, just as a record, that he was here. He fears that if he doesn't remind people, they'll forget. 

Sometimes people read them, and sometimes people reach out to him. He doesn't reply. Not even once. 

**Sometimes I write poetry about you on the internet. Strangers who have never met either of us think you’re cruel – they tell me if they had the honor of loving me, we’d have sex three times a day and they’d scream my name when they came.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Harry is not beautiful, not in a single way. He thinks that maybe the closest he can get to beautiful is in the eyes of strangers who think that his sadness is heartbreaking and lovely. He thinks they only think that because they've never been so sad, and they like to remember that they aren't so sad. 

Harry doesn't mind if people want to use his sadness to be happier, but he doesn't understand it either. 

He feels just as useless either way, but he knows he won't stop being sad any time soon, and these people might as well find his sadness beautiful while he's still here. 

But he knows what they don't, and that this isn't beautiful. Having red eyes all the damn time isn't beautiful. Crying until snot is running down his face and he can't breathe isn't beautiful. Not wanting to step outside his bedroom, _ever_ isn't beautiful. 

So really, nothing about him is beautiful. Everything is just empty. 

**They think it is beautiful, how I am broken. I don’t think they understand.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Harry hasn't left his bed in almost four days. His hair is greasy, and his stomach is empty, and the only thing he's had in him were the two bottles of water sitting on the nightstand, and he can't stop shaking. 

His mother hasn't come up once, despite the fact that he hasn't been to school in a week, and he's probably going to get kicked out any day now. But he doesn't care. And he wouldn't have left his room for her anyways. 

He almost gets sick when he slowly pulls himself from bed and to the bathroom, and he sheds his sweatshirt to try and look at his reflection in the mirror. 

He's long and lanky and too thin. He hasn't had a single bite of food in almost a week, and he can't remember the last time that he's actually had a meal, rather than an orange or a handful of saltine crackers. 

He almost can't hear Niall's voice in his head telling him that he's beautiful anymore, and that scares him so bad, he can't explain it. 

He tries to say it himself, but his voice comes out rough and mangled, and it doesn't sound right at all. He wants to cry, but he thinks he's run dry by now. 

**You used to tell me I was beautiful. I tried saying it in the mirror the other day, but it sounded wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.  
 **[delete]****

** 

Harry slowly feels himself shutting down, and he wonders how long it will be until he gives up. He doesn't know if he wants to live anymore, but he isn't sure he could go through with killing himself. He's weak and not at all brave, and he hates himself. 

He doesn't hear anything anymore except a constant and dull ringing in his ears. When he closes his eyes, he doesn't dream about Niall anymore. He hasn't seen him in ages, and he isn't sure he could even remember his voice. He can't recall the exact shade of blue his eyes were when they sat out on the roof when it was sunny. His laugh, which was once a drug to keep him up, is gone. 

He doesn't cry anymore either. He just hyperventilates sometimes, his tiny body shaking as he lays under four covers, sweating, and still shivering when it's over. He doesn't sleep, really. Sometimes he's there and sometimes he's not, but everything is dark, and he can't distinguish the line between being awake and being asleep. 

He wonders if death feels this peaceful. 

**Everything I say sounds wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.  
 **[delete]****

** 

In June, he finally goes outside again. When he goes downstairs, his mother isn't anywhere to be seen. He's forgotten when she works, so anything is a possibility. He's weak and tired, and so it takes him ages to get into town, though it used to be a ten minute walk from him house for him. 

He can't match names with faces anymore, but he gets stares from people he knows he once knew. He keeps his eyes anywhere but on them. 

He wonders if people thought he was dead. Maybe they thought he went absolutely crazy, had to be locked up with a straight jacket. But here he is. Maybe that's why everyone is staring at the boy in a t-shirt that could be a dress on him, with bones protruding and looking like he might snap any moment. 

He sees Niall from across the road, but Niall doesn't see him. He's focused on a boy who's tall and filled out, and the two of them look happy, and Harry would cry if he could. But he's done enough crying. 

He walks home slowly, slower than when he was going there, and just thought to himself. 

By the time he gets home, he's reached a conclusion. 

He's given up. 

**We were never in love, but, oh God, we could have been.  
 **[delete]****


End file.
